


Dropping Eaves

by OceanTheSoulRebel



Series: Escaping the Cage [6]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Feelings, Gen, ah Alistair, pre-relationships, that's rough buddy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-12
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2019-07-11 12:44:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15972569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OceanTheSoulRebel/pseuds/OceanTheSoulRebel
Summary: Ilya Surana retreats within herself more and more the closer they get to Redcliffe and Arl Eamon. Alistair goes to find her, and finds something else, instead.





	Dropping Eaves

The scent of stewing grains wafted through the campsite as Alistair came in from the tree line. His stomach rumbled, even at the idea of plain oats. “Porridge?” His nose wrinkled slightly as he sniffed toward the fire.  

“Don’t sound so disappointed,” Wynne chided lightly. “Leliana and Sten felled a deer earlier. It’ll go on the fire when they finish cleaning it.” She _tsked_ at him. “Ilya is having a hard time of it, and this might help. Be gentle, Alistair.”

It was true; Ilya had been quieter than usual as they made their way back to Redcliffe. She wasn’t the most outgoing of their merry little band—that would be Leliana by far, then maybe Zevran, though Alistair had his doubts the man was truly trying to be friendly, but that was another matter entirely—but she was at least approachable, easily talked with.

The closer they got to Redcliffe the more reserved she became.

His brows pinched together in a slight frown. “Where is she?” he asked. “Do you think… maybe she might want company?”

Wynne shrugged with a slight smile. “She could probably use a friend. I think I heard her mention a nearby pond?”

Alistair nodded, though Wynne had turned to stir the small pot of grains. He shed most his heavy armor near his tent and re-fastened his sword belt. Alistair paused, reconsidered, then strapped his chest-plate back on. Couldn’t hurt to be careful.

He stalked into the low light of the surrounding forest. What could he say? What did she need? How could he help? He had seen her retreat before, just after they had left the village the first time, and it was painful then. Was it the same now?

“I can be gentle,” he muttered under his breath. Which direction was that pond? Hadn’t he seen it when he walked the camp perimeter earlier?

The light that filtered in through the tree canopy glinted off his breastplate and caught his eye. Alistair paused. The last time he’d come up behind her in his armor he’d nearly given her a heart attack. Was it the plate?

_Is it just me and she’s not saying it?_

He shook the intrusive thought away. If Ilya had a problem with the plate, she hadn’t said anything… but would she? Alistair worried his lip between his teeth as he quickly unbuckled his armor. He wanted to make her feel better—showing up in glinting armor surely wouldn’t help matters.

“Don’t get eaten by darkspawn,” Alistair muttered grimly. Plate divested, he continued his search for the pond, feeling more and more exposed with every step.

==

“I know it’s important. The Arl is important to Alistair, and I suppose to Ferelden. But... I don’t want to go back.”

He was close enough that he could hear her voice—and found that another step brought both of them into view, their backs to him. Alistair scowled. _Zevran._ He’d been after her for months, making up excuses to be near her, flirting outrageously and transparently.

Alistair stilled on the edge of the forest, still hidden within the shadows of the trees a few scant feet behind them. He should cough, make himself known, but even as he thought to do so Zevran moved, scooting closer to her over the leaf-strewn ground.

His stomach tied itself in knots.

“Alistair’s feeling on the subject are his own,” Zevran said, “but I must confess, you don’t seem torn because of his thoughts on it.”

“No, I…” Ilya huddled in on herself. “I don’t want to face them,” she muttered, just barely loud enough for him to hear. “I don’t want to see that I was wrong.”

“And if you weren’t?”

“I killed two mages, Zevran—one a literal child!—who felt they didn’t have other options. How could I not have been wrong? Maybe Alistair was right, I should have tried harder to find a way to save them. He was so mad, and… so was I, for being put in that position.”

Zevran shifted again and after a moment’s hesitation Ilya leaned against his shoulder. The quiet scene stung Alistair with an unfamiliar pain, setting something inside him trembling.

He should go. He should go now, turn around and head back to the fire. Hide in his tent. Anything other than eavesdrop on their private conversation… but he stayed, tense and nervous, hiding in the bushes with his heart in his throat.

“Jowan was one of my best friends, Zevran,” Ilya confessed. Alistair could hear the tears in her voice. “One of my two friends. And I killed him because we both were too scared to do otherwise.”

Zevran’s response was too quiet to hear, and Alistair all but fell backward when he sent a glance directly to his position. A quick flick of his eyes, a shift of his hand, and Alistair knew he had been found out.

“Perhaps it’s time to return to the camp, Warden.” Zevran’s words, now audible, carried easily to the trees.

Alistair saw the out he provided. Mouthing a silent prayer of thanks, he crept quietly back through the trees toward the camp.

==

“And so?” Wynne asked when he approached the fire. “How is she?”

“I… It looked like she needed her space.” Alistair mumbled. He sat on a log bench and stared into the flames. He couldn’t shake the vision of them so… close.

Maybe it was him she didn’t like, not the plate. Or both. Maybe they weren’t as good friends as he had believed.

 _“One of my two friends,”_ Ilya had said.

 _I guess not,_ Alistair thought with a sigh.

“Ah, my friend, just who I wanted to see!”

Zevran’s bright bluster broke through his maudlin thoughts as he sat on the bench next to Alistair. He wrapped an arm amiably around his shoulder and drew him into a conspiratorial whisper.

“Have I ever told you about the leather district in Antiva city? They make the most amazing things--armor, saddles, boots soft enough to walk on clouds. One could step upon the finest Nevarran glass and hardly crack it!” Zevran sighed wistfully. “It is a pity more cobblers in Ferelden don’t carry it, but surely they must carry decent boots.”

Alistair squinted suspiciously. “Sounds great, but I’m not sure why I should know this.”

Zevran smiled, but there was a sharpness to his grin. “I simply noticed yours are looking worn; you might consider a new pair, or perhaps another vial of oil for your own. It would be a shame to give away your position with creaking leather when you’re being sneaky, yes?”

He patted Alistair’s shoulder amiably before moving from the bench. “Ah, Wynne!” Zevran exclaimed warmly. “How lovely you are, especially in the firelight! Please, allow me to assist you in your _grueling_ task.”

Alistair sat numbly as Zevran and Wynne talked among themselves. Ilya hadn’t come back from the pond, so she was probably still there.

Alone. In the darkening woods. In the middle of the Blight.

_Maker, no._

He scrambled to his feet just as she emerged from the woods. “Ilya, are--” he started, only to be cut off by a wan smile.

“Alistair,” she said politely, voice hoarse, and passed by him without another word. She escaped into her tent and drew the flap closed behind her.

The three of them simply stared after her.

“Well,” Wynne finally said, “I think our fearless leader might appreciate something soothing. Alistair, would you care to bring her some porridge?”

“I… I think I might go help Leliana and Sten, actually. Shouldn’t leave them to do all the hard work themselves, not if I want to eat,” he hedged. Alistair rose and awkwardly patted his side for his knife before shrugging back into his discarded breastplate. “She might appreciate your company over mine.”

Wynne hummed noncommittally but observed him, her gaze clear in its assessment. She tsked at him again and pointed into the forest once more.

“Creep into the lair of a notorious blood mage?” Zevran asked, louder than necessary. He set about preparing a bowl, adding in a scant few spoonfuls of honey. He sniffed it before adding another, stirring it in to his satisfaction. “Someone must do it, I suppose it shall be me. I will take on this dangerous task; perhaps she will take pity on my handsome face and allow me to spoon feed her this delicious meal, so lovingly crafted.”

 _She’s a spirit healer,_ Alistair thought with growing annoyance. _Keep that slander away from her!_ But it was a joke, wasn’t it? Between her and Zevran? Ilya never seemed to take offense, so why should he on her behalf?

He felt his insides quiver as Zevran made a show of knocking on Ilya’s tent pole and escaping into the lamp light within. He shook his head with a snort. They were all adults. They would be what they would be. A quick pat-down ensured his buckles were tight, his protective plate cradling him in its shiny embrace.

Alistair ignored the look Wynne gave him, just this side of pity, and marched back into the woods, his heart growing heavier in his chest with every step.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on tumblr at [ocean-in-my-rebel-soul!](https://ocean-in-my-rebel-soul.tumblr.com)  
> 


End file.
